The Devil Laughs
by ravensparrowhawk
Summary: I'm going to put a mark on you one day, boy, that you're never going to forget or get rid of. Yet another take on one of the Joker scarring stories, pre-TDK by a good span. Rated for violence and blood.


I'm sure this has already been covered _countless _times, but I had to do this. A version of the first scarring story the Joker relates in The Dark Knight, one of several he used and could have given. The first person perspective makes it very ODD and the style isn't nearly insane enough for our dear psychopath, but my excuse is easy - he's only twelve years old and hasn't gone through all the necessary crap to turn him into our favorite Clown Prince of Crime. This may end up correlating to a series I plan on starting in the _near_-future, but we'll just have to wait and see.

Now for the blatantly obvious: I don't own Batman, the Joker, have rights to TDK or any of that good stuff. I'm just doing this for a bit of fun. One more note, Evan - who actually is a friend's character - is not mine either. Can't claim him. Double whammy for me.

* * *

Another night, another round. I can hear him yelling before he even comes in the door, but he always stomps up the stairs. He's always drunk, barely able to stand up and readily willing to take out his fury on anyone that gets in the way. Usually, it's mom. Standing by the stove - cooking dinner for us, but not _him _- she looks suddenly terrified. I can't stand to see her like that. If she breaks down crying this time, I'm going to go after him myself. This wouldn't do _me _any good, but it would keep her from having to deal with the abuse.

The door slams open, then shut. His footsteps may as well have been caused by an elephant, they were so loud. Mom gives me a pleading look, and I get up from the table without gathering my homework and run off to my room. It makes me feel like a coward, but I know I can't do anything worthwhile. I already made up my mind to do something, but only once I was sure that things were taking a turn for the worse - they always did, so it was a matter of waiting things out and letting the fight run its course.

He's already sent me to the hospital a couple times, once with a broken arm, then a broken rib. That's nothing to say of all the bruises, black eyes and cuts. He's been beating on me ever since I got past ten years old. Twelve now, I have to wonder whether I'm going to live to see thirteen. At the rate things are going, it's a slim chance.

As soon as I get to my room and shut the door, everything explodes. He's screaming at her, I can hear the pots and pans clatter to the kitchen floor. It's going to be another one of those nights, where he beats up on her and she has to take it. If she ever went for help or went to anyone, he's sworn that he'd kill her. I believe him. The way he treats me and my brother, Evan, I know he's fully capable of it. What did either of us ever do to deserve something like this? Evan gets it worse, but if he ever leaves the house, I'm the replacement. And I know I'll die. In a way, I'm looking forward to that. I won't have to listen to this anymore and not be able to do anything to help my mom. I'll be free of HIM. Maybe tonight will be that night, it's gone on way too long to continue.

Footsteps out in the hall tells me that Evan's going to interfere, again. It doesn't surprise me, he's so much better at defending mom than I am, than I ever can be. I'm nothing more than the weak son, the one that gets in the way and can't do anything right. Maybe one day that'll change - but it would take a miracle. I feel like I need a miracle to survive another night of this.

Something hits the floor, and I know he's knocked her down. He always does that, to make himself feel powerful and to make her feel worthless. 'You're nothing!' He's always shouting at her, and at me. We're both worthless, and Evan isn't much better. He's the stronger one, so that's at least something for my brother's benefit. He's going to grow up to be the strong, tall and better son, I'll be lucky to grow up at all.

I want nothing more than to curl up and forget all this, but it's too loud. Sinking to the floor, I back up against the wall near the door and pull my knees to my chest, then just wait. I can't stand to wait around and listen, but going in there at this point would get me nothing more than another beating. I can't stand the thought of taking that again, not with the threat that went with the last one. 'I'm going to put a mark on you one day, boy, that you're never going to forget or get rid of.' I know he'll do it, it's just a matter of time.

Evan's voice drowns out mom's pleas for him to stop, to go back to his room. He won't do it, he never does. Dad's fury is turned on him, and they're both yelling at each other. I can't even make the words out, it's so loud. Even if I could hear past the sequence of strung-out curses and unintelligable threats, I wouldn't want to. Sometimes, I go so far to wish I was deaf. If I was, I wouldn't have to listen to this. I wouldn't hear the disappointment in mom's voice when she talks about where she went wrong, the anger in Evan's when he's ripping into dad, and the intent to kill in dad's when he's making his threats.

Something else solid hits the floor with a muted bang, and I don't need to think to know what it is. He's knocked Evan over again, and I know by the other sound of muffled thuds that he's beating him _again_. It's going to be bad this time, I just know it. They're still arguing, it's obvious by the yelling, even if I _still_ can't make any words out. He's still beating my brother while it goes on, like it's absolutely nothing to be doing those two things at once. To the poor excuse known as my father, it's nothing. We get in his way, mom was a mistake he indulged too much in, and me and my brother? Bigger mistakes.

I can't listen to any more of the yelling, so I clamp my hands over my ears. I really am pathetic to be letting this play out, but I can't help it. It's still not the right time. This is my family fighting, and I could care less about my so-called father, but he's abusing my mother and brother, the only two people in this world that care about me. Finally, when the sounds of the beating stop, I know I can't let this go on any longer. Even if it's just a distraction, something else to get _his _attention, it has to be done to get him away from them. He's going to turn his attention to her next.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I've gone out of my room and down the hall - time's so slow, it feels like a mile or more to walk instead of fifteen feet. Evan's lying on the carpet at the end of the hallway, beaten pretty badly this time - worse than usual - and there's blood trickling from the side of his mouth. He's sporting a split lip. Biting my own lip sharply, I kneel next to him and numbly touch his neck. The thin, almost thready beat of the vein there tells me he's alive, but he doesn't move at all. Tempted to shake him, to make him wake up, I decide against it as the shouting starts up again. It's all coming from the kitchen this time. One of them has gone for a knife, I can hear it being pulled with the rasp of metal being drawn out of wood casing - the holder next to the sink.

I'm in the doorway when she slashes him across the face with the knife she was holding - she was lucky to have even gotten it. By the slight splatter of blood, it's apparent that she actually managed to hurt him. It's nothing compared to what he does to us on a regular basis, but to her, well...it's a victory she's never been able to win before. She sees me as I look around the doorway, and frantically mouths, 'No!' He doesn't notice, but touches his face where she cuts him, then pulls his hand away to see the blood. His blood. That's the last straw for him, and I can see it without even seeing his face. He's going to kill her.

The knife isn't in her hands for long, because he takes it from her like it's nothing. Of course, he breaks her wrist to do it, but to him, that _is_ nothing. He eyes the blade, and I shrink back even though he can't see me yet. I want to run, to get away before I have to watch this..but I can't. My legs feel like jelly, and I sink to my knees. I watch, as I can't tear my eyes away, even when he starts to laugh. He sounds like the devil himself, and he may as well be. He's ending her life, and in one of the most violent ways possible. He stabs her repeatedly, makes her scream..but her screams eventually fade out, and she falls to the linoleum floor. He stands over her, still laughing, as if it was the funniest thing in the world.

I try to get up, but I make my first mistake of the night. I let out a sound, I don't remember what it was..but it was because of what I'd just watched. He hears it, of course, and turns to look at me. My eyes are drawn to the bloodied knife in his hands, and it's like I see my own blood there, my own death being written out. I look at his face, see the cut she caused, more blood..and I want to gag. It doesn't usually bother me, but the realization that it was _her _blood is what gets me this time. I want to shout, but my voice doesn't work. I'm going to die, and it's going to be at the hands of my own father.

I'm backed up against a wall before I realize it, and he's standing over me. The knife is still in his hands, and he's not laughing any longer..but he's smiling. It's the cruelest expression in the world. He'd just taken my mother away, and he was smiling about it. He'd laughed. And now he's staring at me, at my expression, and it's like being stared down by a wolf that wants to rip me apart for the sheer thrill of it.

"Why so serious, son?" he asks, as the smile fades. He's looking at the knife again, then at me. I still see nothing more than the blood. Maybe if he makes it quick, I can just bleed to death. Bleeding to death sounds far gentler than what had happened to her. The less pain, the better..as long as it didn't take forever, I could probably take the pain. The knowledge of escape from this poor excuse for a life is what compels me not to run from my fate.

He's still there, and while I can't do any better than just look..numb, he looks furious. I want to cry, but I can't. The tears are stuck, frozen in place, refusing to fall. I still can't do it, even when he's kneeling in front of me, one hand firmly enclosed around my neck. I can breathe, but the sensation still makes me want to hyperventilate. He seems to take that as a show of weakness, thinks I'm about to cry, and he actually manages to look angrier. "Let's put a smile on that face!"

And that's just what he does. He cuts both sides of my mouth open with the knife - the one stained with her blood, his blood..and now mine. I hardly feel the pain, but the rush of blood in my mouth makes me gag. I double over on myself as he lets me go, and I almost hope he'll just stab me in the back and be done with it. I've never bled like this, and it terrifies me somewhere deep within. I just want it to end. I don't want to live and have to see my mother's body on the kitchen floor, I don't want to see whether Evan wakes up or not.

I'm bleeding on my clothes and on the floor, but I can't do anything more than stare at the carpet. He's gone, after dropping the knife. I hear the door slam shut as he leaves. He's left her dead, and I know he expects me to bleed to death and Evan to never wake up from the fierce beating. I know I'm going to bleed to death, but I have to get closure before I do. Though my legs don't want to support me, I stand up. I'm standing next to her body before I register anything else, and then it hits me that I'm standing in a pool of blood. Her blood. If the stab wounds hadn't killed her, it had been the blood loss and likely the shock.

Her eyes are closed, and though she's lying like a broken doll in her own blood, she looks oddly...peaceful. I've never seen her like this, without the terror or sadness. It's a relief, but I still hate him for it. He still took her away, when she didn't deserve to die. He's the one that deserves to die. If I don't live to see it, I still want to know that he gets what's coming to him. Footsteps are the next things I hear, and I turn, fully expecting him to be back. But it's not him. It's Evan.

My brother stares at the blood on the floor, at our mother's lifeless body..then he looks at my face. I can hardly stand to see his expression, but he looks sadder than I've ever seen him. He knows who did this, and I know he hates him too. We both do. Everything starts to come crashing down, and the sensation of blood still pooling in my mouth makes me gag again. I don't want to taste it anymore, but it's impossible not to. Death is going to be far slower than I could have imagined, and that makes the tears start. I finally manage to cry, something I haven't done since the first time _he_ beat me.

'Everyone cries at some point.' Mom told me a long time ago, back when things were actually good, normal. Before dad ever came back into our lives. I don't even remember why she said it unless it had been an occasion when I hurt myself, but I believed her. Now, I can't be so sure that it's the best reaction. Tears are a weakness were the other extreme that had been drilled into my head.

For the first real time recently, in spite of my tears and obvious weakness, Evan acts like my big brother. He pulls me away from our mother's body and the blood, takes me to the living room, makes me sit down on the couch. I'm left there alone for just a few minutes, before he's back and taking care of the cuts to my face. Mom taught him how to do things like this, since she had always expected something to happen to her. She had been right, and she had taught Evan the methods that would now save me from bleeding to death. She never should have had to, but her life was such an admitted mess that she found it necessary.

He cleans my face, makes the bleeding stop, and that's when it sets in and starts to hurt. I'm still crying, and this makes the situation worse. I know I'm weak, but I don't like to show it around my brother. I try to hide it, but Evan won't have it. He sits next to me, and wraps his arms around me like mom might have done. I cry harder, yet he still holds onto me. He's my only family now, and that takes only a short time to sink in. I'm worn out, and I know he is. He has to be hurting because of what he went through, but he pushes that aside to take care of me. He's unselfish, just like she was, always looking out for everyone else _but_ himself.

Before long of staying like this, I fall asleep. Had I known that he wouldn't be around when I woke up, or that I would have been taken away from the only home I knew, I would have fought the urge.

As it is, I wake up in the back seat of a car, alone, and the dull reflection of red and blue lights in the leather-upholstered head rest tells me I must have just been taken away from the apartment. It's a crime scene now, as sure as anything, which means the cops are there investigating and refusing to let anyone in. Whoever's driving - I can't see much of them - doesn't seem to realize that I'm awake, a fact I was glad of. I don't feel like talking to anyone at all, even though I'll have to do it eventually. They'll want to know what happened, what I saw, but I'll deal with that when the time comes.

All I really cared to think about at that point was nothing - and the fact that my life had just taken a sharp turn and would be forever changed.


End file.
